


The Haunting of the Old Professor's House

by sepiaparrish



Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Gen, idk man this doesn't have plot it's just fun, strange pevensies, tw mentions of blood and war, weird eerie magic pevensies spark joy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:40:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27600854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sepiaparrish/pseuds/sepiaparrish
Summary: Four ghosts now haunted Professor Kirke’s house, and Mrs. Macready didn’t like it. They wandered the halls all hours of the day and night, not behaving as well behaved children should, and as of late she found she could do nothing about it. There was something about them that kept her from taking out her scolding tone and putting it to use, and it wasn’t something they had arrived with.or, i poorly attempt to explore how the pevensie's behave post-narnia through the eyes of someone who wouldn't know why they're behaving the way they are
Relationships: Edmund Pevensie & Lucy Pevensie & Peter Pevensie & Susan Pevensie
Comments: 12
Kudos: 129





	The Haunting of the Old Professor's House

**Author's Note:**

> hullo please accept my humble offerings to the weird pevensies sub-fandom....i like it here :) many thanks to @reasontokill and @masqueraderevelersx on tumblr for beta-ing!

Four ghosts now haunted Professor Kirke’s house, and Mrs. Macready didn’t like it. They wandered the halls all hours of the day and night, not behaving as well behaved children should, and as of late she found she could do nothing about it. There was something about them that kept her from taking out her scolding tone and putting it to use, and it wasn’t something they had arrived with.

Peter walked too tall. It wasn’t that he was too tall, but he carried himself as though he were, and that was enough. His steps did not shake the ground, but it felt as though they ought to. His head seemed to reach to touch the clouds as if it belonged there, not in a way of empty mindedness, but in a way of strength, as though in his form he held the whole heat of the sun and the whole weight of the sky. As though he could take Atlas’s place and bear the clouds on his shoulders, and keep the stars from getting close enough to pierce the people below with their sharp points. He was strong and he was dangerous. He prowled the halls of the house like he was waiting for an attack, like he was waiting for a chance to protect. When his brother and him got into an argument, (weeks after this change had taken place, this was their first one in weeks!) he growled and snarled like a wolf about to pounce. 

Susan was too detached. She wasn’t unkind, never unkind, in fact she seemed much more gentle and kindly than she had when Mrs. Macready had picked her up at that train station weeks ago. Rather, when you were speaking to her, her smile would light up her face and she would say things just so, to make you feel as if she knew your very soul, saw you and cherished you, and no one doubted she did. A word from her could halt arguments and heal wounds, and a look from her eyes could hold any of her siblings in check. She was caring, and she knew those around her well, it wasn’t that she didn’t, it was that, in spite of all that, she was not quite right. Maybe it was her eyes, her eyes that glinted strangely in the sun, her eyes that saw too much and too keenly. Maybe it was her way of speaking, as though she really could see your thoughts, as though she really did know your aches and hurts and joys and loves. Or maybe it was her lips, too cherry red with no use of makeup. No, not cherry. Blood. Whatever the reason, Susan was not quite there, she was detached, floating above, looking down on those around her with warmth and light, gentle yet distant as the sun. 

Edmund was the most changed. No longer did he cause pointless quarrels, or sit around and sulk. He joked and he laughed and behaved like a much happier boy than he had before, and Mrs. Macready would have left it at that and been grateful but...well, there was the fact of his walk. Gone was the boy who rocketed through the halls, banging into end tables and paintings and suits of armor. Gone was the stomping down the stairs, the hollering and growling. In its place was a boy who moved as gracefully and silently as the shadows cast by the trees in the forest. One would turn to find him standing behind you, and he would smile politely as your heart beat out of its chest. Beyond that, his reasoning was high above that of any other boy of ten that Macready had ever encountered. He won every argument for the rest of the Pevensies stay, and effortlessly, and everyone went away from the argument with not a single complaint, satisfied that the matter had been settled perfectly. He spoke with big words and graceful poise, and on him it did not feel pretentious, rather, it was like a wise old oak bestowing wisdom on little saplings. It was an unsettling tone of voice on a boy of ten, but one never realized that while he was speaking, the realization would always come after the fact when pondering his verdict. 

Lucy was fierce. It was not that she was cruel, it was that in her tiny frame she held the weight and power of something massive. She was kind, and funny, still very much the cute little girl she had always been, but every now and then when something brought about her ire, she raged. Not in a way that was unseemly, there were no tantrums or tears, merely passionate speeches and stormy looks, with deep eyes that held millions of emotions strong enough to wash away any in her path. She was far too big for her body, she held so much. But these moments were far and in between. Most often she was strange in lovely ways. A step here or there that looked too odd, a note she would whistle that sounded like waves crashing against the shore. She spent far more time in the bath than any of her siblings, and her singing reverberated through the halls of the house. And she understood things. Nothing she said ever proved this, but a few times Mrs. Macready would look into her eyes and just know, this little girl knew more about life and death than she did. And Lucy didn’t belong there anymore. Not one of them did, really, but her the least. It was as though she’d been gone from earth for ever so long and was relearning the customs. It was as if, in her mind she lived in another land far from our own. 

The Professor was no help, he noticed no change or if he did, he didn’t say anything. And he indulged them in fantasies. They made up stories of badgers and lions and witches and wars, dreadful tall tales that made Mrs. Macready cluck her tongue, and the old gentleman would just chuckle and ask questions to further the delusions. 

Once, when Peter spoke of a falsified war, she listened, and as she listened his face gained strange weightlessness, odd peace. His eyes gleamed and his hair seemed reddish in the light as he described the gore. His voice grew deeper, heavier, more powerful. And he wasn’t the only child to do such a thing. When Lucy described the talking animals she dreamed of, she made it so commonplace, so normal and natural and of course beavers can talk! And then Macready would notice the little things about Lucy’s face that were animalistic, her canines too pointed, her nails too sharp. After one of her stories, Mrs. Macready once found herself greeting the house cat!

Mrs. Macready was glad when they left, truly she was, but then again. They didn’t really leave, did they? They had left their mark on the house, and as long as she tended it Mrs. Macready would see their ghosts everywhere. See that? The scuff marks from Peter’s shoes as he practiced what appeared to be fencing choreography in the great hall, over and over. He was better at it than any child could possibly be, and looked older with every step he took. There, a hair ribbon that Susan left behind in the garden, a bird had taken it and woven it into the nest that sat in the tree outside the library’s window, or there, a scrap of her dress bookmarking a page in the library, or over in that cupboard, a button of hers, nestled in a tea cup for no discerning reason, found a month after their departure. She had never had so much a hair out of place while she was there. Here, Edmund had helped the gardener devise a new planting arrangement and Mrs. Macready remembered him whenever she set foot outside in the spring, remembered him as the plants grew impossibly fast, as there were far more of them than had been planted, as they looked more vibrant than any tomato sprout had any right being. This, this was Lucy’s favorite hiding place, a wardrobe in an otherwise empty room. It used to smell like mothballs, but something the strange girl had done had left an impression. It now smelled of pine. No, Mrs. Macready did not miss them, it would be difficult to, seeing as they had never really left. Four ghosts haunted the professor's house now, and Mrs. Macready had trouble and yet no trouble at all aligning them with the four children she had picked up at the train station a month ago. She badly wanted a vacation but she didn’t think she’d be able to leave them alone with the professor in that big old house. What a ridiculous notion that was, they really had gotten to her. Like always, she resolved once more to never think of them again, knowing in her heart it would fall apart all too soon.

**Author's Note:**

> hi!! if you liked it i would love if you leave a kudo or comment! you can find me on tumblr @eeriepevensies or at my main @uhohphelia!


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